


would you make me number one on your playlist

by dangercupcake



Series: Starstruck [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Exes, M/M, Post-Hockey, Preparing for a baby, Relationship Discussions, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:12:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11452902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake
Summary: Biz texts back while Latts is schooling Mike in the gym. Mike gives up on the free weights to check his texts and sees:if u like it put a stanley cup ring on it





	would you make me number one on your playlist

The back of Latts’ neck is sunburned from sucking Mike off on the boat, and they’re laughing about it and how Arnold had turned his back on them until they get into the cabin and there’s Jeff, tall and blond and big. Latts’ laughter dies. He’s got his teeth in, so Mike knows he wants something, but Latts doesn’t know Jeff, definitely doesn’t know him the way Mike does -- probably only knows . . . 

Shit.

Only knows a bunch of embarrassing crap from 2012 that Mike wishes no one knew.

“Hey,” Mike says, touching Latts’ shoulder. “Go put some aloe on, okay?”

“Yeah,” says Latts, not taking his eyes off Jeff. He doesn’t move until Mike shoves him.

“So it’s true,” Jeff says, once Latts is up the stairs.

“Who would even tell you?” Mike shoves his fists into his pockets. His shorts are old and frayed. They weren’t even fishing. Jesus.

“Besides _Instagram_?” Jeff takes a step toward him. “Your parents are worried.”

“My parents are worried so they called you? That’s hilarious. Do they know they’re six years too late for that?”

“Come on, Richie.” Jeff somehow makes it look like he’s looking _up_ at Mike, even though he’s half a foot taller. “What are you doing here?”

“For some reason, I didn’t get any free agency calls,” Mike tells him, trying to keep his voice even. “Europe doesn’t want me, and my doctor is fucking _relieved_ , did you know that? She keeps saying one more hit in the head and I could be one of those guys in bed all day with the curtains closed, another hockey concussion statistic. My parents are living in a fucking dream world where I work hard enough and Hockey Canada calls me up for the Olympics.”

“They told me you’re adopting a baby instead of trying to get back in shape.” Jeff holds out his hands. “You with a baby? I told them they must have misunderstood.”

“Carts.” Mike’s hands are still clenched in fists. Like Jeff with a baby is any more believable? And his wife is pregnant _again_. Is the only reason it’s so unbelievable Mike’s going to have a baby because it’s with a _dude_? No homo? “You don’t know me anymore, buddy. Mikey and I are having a baby together. In a couple of months. We’ll put you on the list for the announcements.”

“You and that kid?”

“He has a name.”

Jeff looks like someone just traded him back to Columbus. “Richie,” he gets out.

“Just because you didn’t want me didn’t mean no one was ever going to, Jeff.” Mike takes his hands out of his pockets. “Give me back the key to this place and you can go home.”

Jeff is just staring at him, so Mike goes into his shorts’ pocket on the left side, the lump, and pulls out the single key on the ring, with the plastic tag that says Richie on it. 

Mike pats Jeff on the shoulder. “Come on, bud, go home.” He steers him toward the front of the house. “You can tell my parents I was impossible to talk to, that my mind is made up, that the boy toy and I are definitely doing this and you couldn’t talk me out of it. Tell them you think I might be a queer for real, not just fooling around --”

“Richie,” says Jeff, his voice all raw.

“Say hi to your wife for me. And the kid you get to have without anyone up in your fucking business because you’re straight now.” Mike is aiming for pleasant, but he thinks he hits bitter and aching instead. He gets points for trying, he decides. He gets points for being an adult about this.

Mike pushes Jeff out onto the front steps and closes the door before Jeff reacts. Locks it. Leaves him there.

It hurts.

Mike stumbles to the back porch to let Arnold in, and then lies down on the couch and hides his face in the cushions. He gets this, he tells himself. He gets to spend at least a half an hour letting himself feel terrible. Jeff looked really good and that _hurt_.

Arnold jumps up on the couch and lies down on Mike’s ass and back.

Good dog.

*

Week 17 your baby weighs as much as a turnip (however much that is; Mike doesn’t think he’s ever eaten a turnip) and the sweat glands are starting to form.

They still don’t know the sex, but Mike looks at the ultrasound on his phone anyway. Baby. It’s easier to calm down with a focus. He finishes his glass of water, feeds Arnold a treat, and goes looking for Latts.

Mike climbs in bed with him but tries not to disturb him watching a video on the iPad. 

“Why aren’t you using the TV?”

“I dunno.” Latts yawns. “I thought I was gonna fall asleep, I guess.”

“How’s your neck?”

“It’s fine. It’s not even really sunburnt.” He turns a little so Mike can see. He’s on Mike’s side of the bed, getting aloe on Mike’s pillows, and Mike’s not even mad. He’s just so happy Latts saw Jeff standing there and didn’t immediately walk out of the house. Because that’s what Mike would have done. If it had been Tom Wilson standing there, trying to convince Latts to dump Mike and get rid of the baby, Mike would have walked away, not fought for Latts, not --

No, that was the old Mike. The one who just walked away from Carts and didn’t push.

This is the new Mike, who fought with his parents about Latts and the baby, who said, this is what I want, this is my family, I need you to understand it and be okay with it before I come back here.

His mom hasn’t liked any of his Insta posts of the sunsets since then, so that’s a pretty big sign they’re not okay. 

“My parents called Jeff,” says Mike abruptly, his fingers light on Latts’ neck. “They thought he could, I dunno, talk sense into me or something. Talk me straight because he went straight.”

“I know. I was eavesdropping a little.” Latts turns the iPad screen off, and turns over to face Mike on the bed. “I don’t think that’s what was going on, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, you haven’t talked to them? So maybe they’re just worried about you, Richie. Maybe they were just checking in the only way they know how.”

“With _Carts_.” Mike sighs. 

“You never talk about him,” says Latts.

“I really don’t want to.” Mike leans in and kisses Latts, pulls away when he doesn’t kiss back. O-kay. “Do you want to paint the baby’s room?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you in there.”

They’ve finally agreed on a fucking yellow. It’s not one either of them really liked, it’s more of an orange, but they can both tolerate it. Mike is not an idiot and he’s been in relationships before; he knows they haven’t been arguing about the color of paint. Not when Latts is such an easygoing bro. 

When they’re finally in the room, all the windows open, dropcloths down, he says, “So do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“No,” says Latts. Mike listens to their rollers going for a while.

“It’s just,” Latts finally says. Score one for silence. “Carts had a key.”

“He’s my buddy,” Mike lies -- almost evenly. And for a second wishes it could be true.

“Like I’m your buddy?” Latts’ roller stops rolling.

“No, he’s mostly faithful to his wife, and when he’s not, it’s not with me.” Mike tries to keep the pressure on his roller even. It’s a good workout, between that and keeping his breathing even. Keep calm, don’t show fear. Or . . . whatever this emotion is.

“But it used to be you, right. Hey, look at me.”

Mike puts down the roller and turns slowly. Latts’ eyes are red, and his roller is leaning against the wall. 

“He has a key because it used to be you, not because he’s your buddy.”

“I didn’t realize it was finally time to trade stories about our hotter, richer exes who dumped us,” says Mike, and then shuts his eyes. That was such a dumb thing to say. Latts is probably going to throw some paint at him and call him an asshole and storm out. Latts _should_. Mike knows fighting is dumb and not going to get him what he wants and that poking at another guy’s bruises isn’t fair and --

“Are you dumping me?” demands Latts, up in Mike’s face.

“What?”

“Are you dumping me for being jealous? Sorry I’m stupid and young and don’t know anything and the condom didn’t work _one time_ , I don’t fucking know, Richie, what --”

“No, I’m not _dumping you_ , you fucking moron --”

“Then I don’t have a hotter, richer ex who dumped me,” snaps Latts, shoving Mike’s shoulders.

Mike grabs him by the biceps and hangs on. “I’m definitely not the hot one in this relationship.” _Relationship._ “I meant -- you and Wilson.”

“There was no me and Willy,” scoffs Latts. “Are you kidding. He couldn’t hug me without saying no homo. Like, you’ll eat KD before he touches a dick that’s not his own. We’re just bros.”

“But you, you definitely had sucked dick before --”

“Oh my god, Richie, I wasn’t a _virgin_ , I was in the O _and_ the A, come _on_ , I’ve sucked _a lot_ of dick.” Latts slides his hands up into Mike’s hair. “You’re not even the hottest or the richest probably.”

“You’re such an asshole,” says Mike without any heat, and tilts his head up for a kiss. They’re going to die of the fumes before they get anything done, but this is more important. Thank god Latts hadn’t been a virgin when they fucked for the first time. Their first time had been a drunken fumble after a bad game, which -- okay, so had Mike’s actual first time, all of his first times doing everything except things to do with hockey -- but more importantly, Mike barely remembers it, and he’d rather remember.

He’d really rather remember.

“Didn’t I tell you you’re my family,” he mumbles into Latts’ mouth. Latts grunts at him. “Say it, say I’m your family.”

Latts pushes him against the wall and he thuds hard. “You’re my family,” Latts says breathlessly. “We’re gonna have a kid together.”

“We’re having _a kid_ ,” says Mike. His dick is so interested in this.

“That turns you on?” asks Latts. “For real?”

Mike flushes red. “Shut up, eh?”

“No, I want --” Latts sinks to his knees, pulling Mike’s shorts down on his way.

Mike gets his second blowjob of the day, just for existing and thinking having a family with Latts is hot.

There’s orangey yellow paint everywhere when they’re done because Latts had shoved him up against a painted wall, and Mike’s deliberate hand prints in the orange-yellow on Latts’ torso. 

Mike thinks the picture on Instagram of the hand print over Latts’ heart is, like, a really good statement. The fact that it makes his agent call and leave an agonized “What are you DOING, RICHIE” voicemail is a bonus.

***

Mike watches Latts sleep. His stomach growls. He wants a protein smoothie with a lot of strawberries, but he also wants to lie here and look at this kid’s face. Latts is still upset about something. Not Carts. He was upset before Carts and he’s upset still, almost a week later.

The baby is 18 weeks old. They’re supposed to get a new ultrasound today, to replace the old one. On one hand, Mike wants to be like, dude, how can you be upset when we get a new ultrasound? But on the other hand, Mike is still upset about his parents, so whatever is going on with Latts, he kind of gets it.

Biz was the only one who picked up on Mike’s Insta post from a week ago. He texted, all, you’re still fucking that kid? Is this the longest relationship you’ve ever had? And Mike had almost texted back to explain they’d taken a break for the 16-17 season, except he’d realized just in time that Biz was chirping and meant “still” as in still from when Mike had texted him when Latts had shown up to smugly brag that the kid had wanted his advice and his dick and no one wants either of those things from Biz.

Mike replied with something dumb, but now he pulls his phone out and takes a quick creeper pic of Latts sleeping, and texts it to Biz and writes, What if I want to marry this kid? 

He sends it before he loses his nerve.

*

Biz texts back while Latts is schooling Mike in the gym. Mike gives up on the free weights to check his texts and sees: _if u like it put a stanley cup ring on it_

He knows Biz is just chirping, but ten years ago, if he texted that to anybody, the chirps would have been vicious, all homo and faggot and shit. Hell, he got that just for being off his game some nights, or letting the guys see him pull a couple instead of just one girl. He and Carts -- well, Carts mostly, was so careful, and they still got chirped to hell and back about being codependent. Now he’s getting Beyonce lyrics and Biz would probably be the first guy to show up to his gay wedding to another hockey player. 

He might be the only guy to show up, but he’d be the first one.

Mike drinks two bottles of Gatorade watching a shirtless Latts do pull ups and then try to get through a powerlifting routine.

“Fucking lazy,” chirps Latts, out of breath. He lies on the floor. “Ugh.” 

Mike rolls him a purple Gatorade.

“Bro. You know I’m BioSteel or die.”

“Drink the Gatorade, hater.”

“Don’t take a picture.”

Mike lifts his phone threateningly, but grins. Latts’ secret love of purple Gatorade is something he’s already sworn to take to his grave.

“Will you tell me something?” asks Mike. He wants to poke at Latts’ glistening skin but he’s wearing sneakers and he thinks his feet probably stink. And unlike Latts, he’s not going to lie down on the floor of the gym, even though it gets cleaned every week.

He wonders what his cleaning lady thinks about him and Latts.

Then he puts it out of his head.

“Anything,” says Latts, in between giant swallows of Gatorade.

“Will you tell me why you’re so upset?”

“I’m not _upset_.”

Mike sits quietly, watches Latts finish the Gatorade, start stretching. All that skin. This is nothing Mike hasn’t seen a hundred million times before on a thousand guys, but somehow it’s different, this is so different. He didn’t want to fuck every guy he saw stretch out after working out, not even close, didn’t even think about it 99% of the time, but Latts takes his shirt off and Mike’s insides get wriggly. Latts smiles and Mike gets wriggly. Latts looks sad and Mike wants to make him happy; Latts has a problem and Mike wants to help him fix it; Latts looks happy and Mike wants to drink him in.

“I don’t get why you don’t want to talk to me,” says Mike quietly. “What did I do?”

Latts lifts his head off his knees and rearranges so he’s looking at Mike, his chin on his knees, his legs stretched out in front of him. Mike comes closer and crosses his legs, puts a hand on Latts’ shin. His skin is wet with sweat. Mike wants to roll around in it, but contains himself to just rubbing his thumb through it.

“You’re the one who’s not talking to me,” says Latts. “What did _I_ do?”

“I talk to you about everything.”

“Your parents, though. I mean. Bro.”

“What about my parents?”

“You haven’t talked to them in like a _month._ ”

“Yeah, well, they haven’t talked to me _either_.” Mike takes a deep breath. His brothers haven’t talked to him either. That could be because they’re taking his parents’ side, or just because it’s one of those summers where everyone is leaving each other alone. “I don’t have a lot to say about them. Especially -- they sent _Carts_ here.”

Latts sits straight up and stretches tall, then comes down again and grabs his toes with one hand and Mike’s hand with the other. He puts his cheek on his knees, and Mike’s hand on his face, and kisses Mike’s wrist. He shuts his eyes. Mike feels that wiggling in his stomach. Latts’ eyelashes are _so long._

“I hate that you’re fighting with your parents about this,” he says, keeping his eyes closed. “I want everything to be okay. They liked me, I don’t understand why they’re upset that we’re . . . making a family.”

Everything else flies out the window, because this is the first time Latts has said that they’re a family. Oh, Mike has said it a bunch of times, but _Latts_ has never said it without Mike asking him to. Until now.

Mike leans over and kisses Latts, who tastes like sweat and purple Gatorade. At least he doesn’t like yellow Gatorade. That would end the relationship.

“I don’t know,” Mike finally says. “They said a lot of shit about hockey and coaching and how this wasn’t how they thought my life would be, and I was . . . not hearing it, you know, because this isn’t what I thought my life would be either, but we have to fucking accept shit sometimes. It’s not like I thought I’d be . . . someone with problems . . . or whatever. I thought Carts and I were gonna win a few more Cups together -- I didn’t think he was gonna start telling people he didn’t know me. I thought a lot of things. I didn’t know this would be my life.”

“Yeah, fuckin’ same,” says Latts. He opens his eyes and looks at Mike.

“But the baby,” Mike tells him. “And you. I don’t know why you think I’d be a good dad, we’re gonna fuck this up so bad, but the more we talk about it and plan for it, the more excited I get, and fuck my parents for wanting to take that away from me.”

“I never wanted to come between you and them. I thought they liked me.”

“They did like you. I don’t _understand_ what the problem is except that they don’t think I should be a dad. Or they think having a kid makes me _too_ gay. I don’t know. I tuned them out by that point. And then kind of ran away,” Mike confesses. “But my mom hasn’t been liking my Insta posts, and they haven’t been texting, so it’s not . . . they’re not . . . you know.”

“So all three of you are dumb, not just you,” translates Latts.

“Yeah,” sighs Mike.

Latts sits up and cracks his neck. “We should invite them over for dinner to see the sonogram. And we have that video of the heartbeat, we can play that for them. Every grandparent wants that, did you see how my dad almost _cried_ when we Skyped him?” 

“Okay, but your whole family is -- I mean -- you cried at that movie you made me watch about the penguins.”

“You’re just way tougher than me.” Latts crawls to him, then over him, knocking him backward. 

“I’m not tough,” Mike protests. “I just --”

Latts cuts him off with a kiss, and grabs his junk.

*

Mike texts his mom later that night, after they clean up, after dinner, after he and Latts drink hot chocolate and throw sticks for Arnold in the twilight like a gay commercial. After he holds Latts’ hand for a little while just because he likes to do it and it makes Latts blush and duck his head and then scoot closer on the porch steps.

He attaches the ultrasound they got that afternoon. _We’re having a boy_ he types. _Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow and tell embarrassing stories about me to Latts?_

She shoots back a response immediately: _We’ll bring a salad._

That turned out to be so easy. 

Mike takes a selfie of him and Latts pressing their faces together and posts it to Instagram with no comment. 

“It used to make me crazy when you did that,” says Latts, laughing as Mike turns off his phone screen.

“What?”

“Post things without any explanation. I always wanted to be like, dude, tell us what the fuck is going on. Then I realized that you can’t explain shit to people once they’re looking at you. Like, if you post what you really want to say, you get in trouble. But if you try to talk around what you want to say, people try to fuck you figuring shit out. And if you post something totally unrelated . . . it’s just all bullshit, it’s better to say nothing, or say something really ridiculous.”

“I wanted to write something dumb.” Mike shrugs. “Like, celebrating our baby’s 18-week birthday in the womb, or whatever. It would just be such a fucking pain. And it’s nobody’s business. We know what we’re doing.”

“What are we gonna name him?”

Mike throws a goopy, saliva-covered stick for Arnold. “Fucking anything but Michael.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who Kudos'd and commented on the first part of this series. You are all great!!!
> 
> A million thanks to [wearemany](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany) for betaing this part ♥


End file.
